Oh to still believe

One of the best bits of our new life is the fact that my 10yo daughter, like all Dutch primary school children, gets the Wednesday afternoons off. Every single one of them. This leaves us ample time for a leisurely lunch and some ice skating lessons at the famous Amsterdam ice rink.

It's her second lesson today. Just like last week, my girl is very excited to put on her ski trousers as I guess, they remind her of Switzerland. There, for about three months every winter, she would more or less live in her 'snow pants'.
It makes me happy to see her so buoyed up at the prospect of another skating lesson, as the transition from her beloved international school in Zug, to a small Dutch primary school has proofed to be quite hard for her. So much so in fact, that my daughter at the moment point blank refuses to read any Dutch books, or watch any Dutch programmes on the telly. Instead, she totally lives for 'Strictly Come Dancing', 'Junior Bake Off' and 'Operation Ouch!'.
Anyway, she adores the idea of going to the outdoor ice rink every week. Together with her half Dutch, half German 8yo cousin and a number of other children she is being taught the basics of ice skating. The best bit, according to the girls, is that they now know 'how to fall properly', something they enthusiastically demonstrate at every opportunity. The flipside being that they make me practise tumbling down as well. But whereas the girls quickly scramble to their feet, it takes me ages to get my skates firmly planted on the ice and my head sticking in the air again.
Fortunately, after my second fall, it is time for their lesson, so I glide around in relative peace for a while. It's an interesting sensation to be back on skates after eighteen or so years.
In our courting days Mr. S and I, both wearing black,  long track, ice speed skates, and looking much more streamlined than we do now, would easily skate forty odd kilometres together. But by the time we got married and both started work, a period of frost seldom seemed to coincide with time off work, so skating quickly became something we would get back into if we ever got more time.
Instead we had two babies within the space of sixteen months and, besides when we had to go to work,  we were hardly making it out of the house. By the time we got out on the other side of the nappy tunnel once more, we moved to England, then to Italy and later to Switzerland. And although Switzerland had plenty of ice rinks, they were all geared towards figure skating or ice hockey matches and besides we loved skiing too much to go skating more than once in a blue moon.
The minute though that I put my skates on and set foot on the ice, I feel great. So great in fact, that after only a few rounds, I decide that I am going to risk a left turn whereby you cross your right skate over your left a number of times. I manage to put my right foot down, but can't seem to remember what my left foot is supposed to do at this point. Again I land face first on the ice, but since all my limbs seem still to be in working order, I crack on. I haven't had such uncomplicated fun in a long time.
When my daughter comes to join me after her lesson, she can't wait to show me all her tricks. Within the short space of two lessons she has learned how to skate backwards, jump on her skates, break -  a useful skill that I haven't quite mastered yet -and jump up onto the soft boarding alongside the rink. I manage to avoid to have to try any of those things by taking tons of pictures of my stunt girl.
Just as we are leaving the ice to get some hot chocolates, Saint Nicolas flanked by three black Peters - all on skates-  turn up. I am gobsmacked but the gathered Dutch children seem to take it completely for granted that Saint Nicolas gets into a sleigh so that  his helpers can pull him round the ice rink. My 10yo daughter on the other hand, is over the moon. For the first time in her life Saint Nicholas isn't just turning up once a year between two and three in some village hall. Instead she meets him constantly, at the supermarket, the swimming pool, the cinema and now the ice rink.
She doesn't really believe anymore, although she says she does about six times a day. She can be very stubborn. But I must admit that she has a point, because wouldn't life be so much nicer if we could al still believe in Saint Nicholas , Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny?
Ten minutes or so later, her face stuffed with cinnamon biscuits and a sleigh pulling session under her belt and my lovely girl seems to be completely in tune with the 'Dutchness' inside her. For the time being skating seems to take centre stage, alpine dreams fast becoming a thing of the past. And judging by her glowing, happy face, she is almost ready to wear  wooden shoes to school, grow tulips for a living and paint some windmills.

Spoiled

In the middle of  a long and rather demanding week, there are few things more stressful for Mr. S and myself than trying to book a holiday together. Still, that is just what we did.

Ever since we left Switzerland we have been dreaming about a proper ski holiday. We were not going to deny ourselves a week of frolicking in the snow. But utterly spoiled as we are after five years of being able to effortlessly commute to the nearest slopes every weekend, we felt spending two full days in the car to only find ourselves endlessly queuing for lifts to just go down overcrowded pistes, was simply beneath us. Hence we didn't book a hotel, didn't decide where we wanted to go, nor when our dreamed up holiday should take place. Simply because taking action would mean accepting the fact that we are no longer living in Switzerland, are no longer expats so can't take our children out of school a day or so before they officially break up to make traveling a bit less stressful.
We told the children - who by the way are dying to go skiing - that we might skip a winter and tried telling ourselves that going on a very expensive winter holiday would only eat into our savings and therefore was not a very grown up thing to do. Unfortunately, to no avail.
So we toyed with some ideas for a while, ranging from swopping houses with expat friends still living in Switzerland, or renting a shoebox sized appartment in France, to booking a trip to Norway to 'get away from it all'. But we never once turned on the computer to actually see what is available. Until this week that is.
It all starts with me going for a coffee with one of my new friends. She also recently moved from Switzerland to the Netherlands and is very busy booking a family ski holiday. It is getting more and more difficult to find a hotel she tells me, as the Dutch February 'spring break', tends to be the exact week  when the whole of Europe heads for the mountains. Oh dear. I haven't even started looking.
I know Mr. S will be no help as he is a firm believer of the mantra:  'keeping all options open for as long as is humanly possible'. And I must admit that for him this works beautifully. Mr. S has this unshakeble belief that he will always find a hotel and he normally does, just as he always finds a parking spot close to the entrance of wherever he goes. I,  on the other hand,  always end up parking a least ten minutes walking from where I need to be, but that is a different story altogether.
Anyway, as soon as I get  home I turn on the i-pad to frantically scour the internet. I spend hours looking at hotels, appartments and B&B's close to the slopes in Austria, Italy and France. Getting nowhere of course. My total lack of focus on a specific country, let alone a ski area results in nothing but confusion. And an absolute certainty that a ski holiday is outragingly expensive, especially if you leave booking it till the last minute.
I am just about getting ready to throw in the towel when I stumble upon a little hotel in our favourite Italian ski resort that we have stayed in once before, when every other hotel in the area was fully booked. Because it is rather far from the ski lifts it isn't costing an absolute fortune. And believe it or not it still has one last room unoccupied in our designated week.
Throwing all rationality out of the window, I nearly book it straight away. It is only with my finger hovering over the send button, that I decide that may be Mr. S. deserves to have a say in the matter as well. But as it turns out that evening we are both absolutely knackered and a bit grumpy, so - in order to save our marriage - it is best if we don't talk about an expensive ski holiday.
Early next morning, just after I dropped my daughter off at school, I send Mr. S. a text with the ominous words: 'Ready to book'. Within a second I receive a reply. 'Call you in a minute', which - credit where credit's due - he does.
It's not long before we are both online checking the Italian tourist board website. Whereas it is normally utterly detrimental to our relationship to look at a computer together - we both want to be in control of the keyboard (I know, it's rather sad, isn't it) - each having our own computer (and phone!) saves the day.  As he can now see for himself that actually most hotels are fully booked (even the one that I managed to find yesterday) makes Mr. S. more sympathetic to the idea that booking a bit earlier, in general gives you just a tat more choice. Something that I no doubt can use to my advantage in the future. 
Eventually, after a lengthy session on the phone and a few more hours spend on our computers at opposite ends of the living room, we manage to secure a room in Sporthotel Platz with a very cosy, wood clad dining room where chef Theo, next in line to take over the Platz' family hotel, according to the website cooks robust, yet elegant food. And ( I am not making this up)  once a week jumps on the table with his accordion whereupon the assembled guests and the extended Platz family dance until the sun comes up. It all sounds too good to be true.
So, we have gracefully resigned ourselves to the fact that come February we will be joining the queue of Dutch cars crawling towards the mountains. Now the only thing we need to come to terms with is the fact that we can't reach Florence, Venice, the Alsace, the Matterhorn, Wales, the Yorkshire Dales,  the Lake District, or Milan whenever we fancy a nice day out. Because by golly, are we spoiled.

Triangle

Drawing (and story) by Naomi Hattaway

Some days being back in my home country mystifies me. Behaviours, or unspoken rules, that after living abroad for eight years strike me as really weird are in a Dutch context of course perfectly normal. I am the one that needs to adapt, or am I?

Just this morning while I was contemplating how lovely it is to be able to take my 10yo daughter to school on my bike, I almost bumped into an au pair from the Philippines trying to steady a heavy carier trycicle with three blond children aboard. Poor thing. Whereas I at least have long legs and a past rich of cycling expeditions, head first into gale force winds with rain slashing in my face, she has not.
Is it so much more natural, or normal to see an American au pair in a big four wheel drive Volvo collecting a couple of kids from the international school in switzerland, or children being picked up by a private chauffeur every day from our school in Italy? Not really no. Still the image of this tiny Filipina struggling to keep her monster bike afloat, strikes me as really weird.
Just as weird really to find myself severely overdressed at my neighbour's fortieth birthday party. She had send out handwritten invitations, hired a caterer and erected a party tent in the garden. So it wasn't an informal, bring your own booze type of get together and yet at least half of the guests were wearing jeans and a top.
In the Netherlands it is considered perfectly allright to wear jeans, trainers and the latest knitwear wherever you go, be it a party,  the theatre, a restaurant, or a graduation ceremony. Ten years ago I would probably have thought nothing of it, but after living in England where everyone wears something sparkly and festive to go out and Italy where you wouldn't be seen dead going into town wearing flipflops, or out to dinner wearing the same clothes you had on all day, I feel it is much nicer if everyone takes the effort to put on something special before going to a party.
My English friends will smile when I confess that I do struggle with the bluntness of my Dutch countrymen. Although my English mates have always found me cringingly direct, Dutch people can be forthright to the point of being rude. Over the past couple of days waitresses and shopassistants have told my 10yo daughter off in what I perceived as a very unfriendly manner. Yes, she was touching some things in shops that she perhaps shouldn't have, picking wax of a candle in a cafe and hiding under a clothes rack just for the fun of it, but before I even got the chance to tell her to stop, someone beat me to it. And not in a gentle way with a smile on their face, no, more in an oldfashioned headmistress kind of manner.  I didn't like it and have decided to take at least some of my business elsewhere.
Instead of being one hundred percent Dutch as most of the people I meet these days, I have become part English (I love their politeness, eagerness to queue and - dare I say it- their over the top Christmases) part Italian (I love the fact that they all love my children and always make me feel like
the guest of honour in their cafe's and restaurants) and part Swiss (sometimes it is nice if everyone just obbeys the rules. I for one really enjoy spotless clean swimming pools and dog poo free pavements).
A friend of mine send me a lovely story the other day in which a circle from circle country gets on a plane to go live in square society for a few years. On moving back this little circle dicovers that although he hasn't become a square, he certainly isn't a circle anymore. Instead he has changed into a triangle, without quite realising it.
So that's what I am: a triangle and proud of it. I even found some lovely other triangles to hang out with. Joking about our inabillity, at times, as square pegs to fit into round holes, really makes my day. As does fantasising about a little lady moving back home to the Philippines one day taking with her a Dutch carrier tricycle and telling everyone around her exactly what she thinks of them.


How do you feel as an expat, or repat? Have you become a triangle yet? And what made you realise this? Go on, just spill the beans...

Bad Hair Day

                              




Every move sooner or later reaches the stage of me pulling my hair out. Not because I am that desperate but because I have to find a new hairdressers.

Let me start by saying that there are few things that I dislike more -  on my list a visit to the hairdresser would only be topped by going in for a cervix smear, or a root canal treatment - than having my hair cut. Just the whole back breaking exercise of having it washed is enough to put me in a bad mood. I never am comfortable, despite my politely uttered reassurance, with my neck resting on a rock solid plastic rim and water dripping in my ears. And why on earth you should shampoo and then condition your hair twice in a row is beyond me.
There was one blissful periode in England. After several visits to different hairdressers who invariably spend fifteen minutes cutting and a good hour blowdrying (styling!) your hair, we came accross a lovely lady who made house calls. She could cut, dry and style all four of us in an hour. And the best part: you could wash your own hair in your own shower. Cleaning the kitchen smothered in human hair seemed a small price to pay.
After our move to Italy it seemed neigh on impossibe to find a replacement. Luckily we found an old fashioned salon at the bottom of our street. The team of stylists consisted of mum, well into her sixties with a purple helmet of hair, her daughter, son in law and a ferocious, but impeccably groomed, orange poodle. The elderly head of the family made a mean espresso, so in Italy was deemed a valuable asset to the business. And so he was.
No premium espresso's were being served in Switzerland, where I decided to grow out my hair. Not so much as a fashion statement, but more so because for a long time I couldn't face the discussion about layers, fringes and blow drying techniques in yet another language. In the end I found the one place in Switzerland where you didn't need to book an appointment, so I could just walk in on days when I felt particularly courageous.
With hair almost as long as my 10yo daughter's, I felt that I couldn't postpone a trip to the hairdressers any longer. Since a friend (with lucious chestnut coloured wavy locks completely unlike my own limp blond excuse of a hairdo) recommended her hairdresser, I decided yesterday to take the plunge.
I really tried to ignore the water dripping in my ears and although I vowed that looking at my not so young face upclose in a mirror with my hair piled up high in unfashionable pink hair pins for a least an hour wasn't going to get me down, it did in the end.
I also discovered that language, contrary to my beliefs, doesn't play a part in my disliking of going to the hairdresser. Yesterday, I found that whilst being able to discuss my hair in my mothertongue I still didn't have anything to say about it.
To cowardly to admit that I more often than not leave the house in the morning with wet hair and that styling it is something that I have carefully avoided for years, I tell lies. Something that I manage to do so convincingly that I invariably come home with some useless and very expensive styling mousse or hair serum that I feigned to be interested in.
On the upside though I had enough of my wits about me yesterday to make the girl seriously trim my hair. It's much shorter than I have had it in years. So short in fact that I don't need another haircut for at least a year. Or two. In this timespan I might even manage to use the volume enhancing product that I bought. Or else it might look lovely next to the unused jar of boob dust in it's secret hiding place.

Defrosting

                       

Pippi Longstocking would absolutely adore my kitchen at the moment. With the help of two brushes tied to her size 10 feet and a little detergent she could skate to her heart's content. All because as a spur-of-the-moment thing I decided to defrost my fridge/freezer.

It seemed like such a good idea this morning.  The fridge could defrost while I was doing the weekly shop. Upon coming home I was going to deep clean the beast, before packing it to the brim again. All would have been fine, if only I had turned the heating off, before I left the house. Remembering to take the drawers out of the freezer, would also have made a difference.
On a(nother) whim I decide to check out a different supermarket as it seems such a waste to drive to the nearest supermarket as it is only 300 yards from my house. I justify taking the car by driving fifteen minutes to another supermarket where I am going to do a really big shop. A hundredandsixty euro's and three bags filled to the brim later, I feel like I have really accomplished something. It is not until I arrive back home that I realise there is absolutely nowhere to unpack the mountain of perishable goods.  Allthough it is strangely balmy outside, considering we are nearing the end of october, I decide to leave everything in the boot of the car.
I let myself in, carefully avoiding the kitchen, because first I need to go and see my physiotherapist. It takes him a bit longer than anticipated to abuse my lower back, so instead of going home, I need to rush over to my daughter's school to pick her up. Thank God she decides to go over to a friend's house for a play date, because when I finally make it back into my kitchen disaster has struck.
Not only have the overflowing freezer drawers flooded my kitchen; the milk, butter and cheese left outside the fridge has completely melted and is leaving gooey blobs all over the units. Packets of ham have turned greyish and defrosted pakets of peas and puff pastry have mingled into a sorry mess.
Luckily I discover real mushrooms in the fridge as well as white mouldy bits and non identifiable black, crumbly smears, completely justifying the chaotic defrosting operation.
My 12yo and his classmate look at me curiously when they find me smothered in food scraps and kneeling in a large puddle trying to clean the fridge. The last time I did this - in a different house in a different country - I could easily lift the shelves out, but never managed to make them slide back in again, so this time I am desperately trying to clean the shelves while leaving them in the fridge.
You have to be quite flexible to get rid of all the new growth, let me tell you that.
While I scrub, mob and wipe I have loads of time to ponder our recent new beginnings in the Netherlands. something that I have carefully avoided for the past two months. It is not all bad, I decide. Wanting to clean the fridge in my new home, surely is a sign of nesting, is it not? and mY heart is definitely defrosting, albeit slowly, as I am trying to fall in love all over again with my motherland.
Hours later, I contently look at my new sparkly clean and well stocked fridge. I have send Mr. S. to the nearest chippy for a couple of beers and some well deserved greasy treats. No one is allowed to touch the sanitized appliance again. Or at least not today. The cleanliness of the fridge is as fragile and easily disrupted, I fear, as are my baby steps on the road to accepting that life has changed once again.

Glamming up

                                       

Fast approaching her eleventh birthday my daughter has suddenly developped an interest in shopping. Whereas before she would only reluctantly agree to come with me to get her some new shoes/trousers/tops, nowadays I am the one who hesitates when she asks to be accompanied into town.

The fact is that she would rather go by herself - it has allready been two, or even three years since my daughter decided she was old enough to do most things on her own - and thus every shopping expedition starts with an argument. She demands an exact date, albeit months (years?) from now, on which she can set out on her own. I know if I let myself being tempted into picking a date it will be set in stone.
The minute I promiss to take her to a cafe and treat her to a hot chocolate however, she will grudgingly put up with me tagging along. As long as she is allowed to turn left on entering a shop while I take a right, that is. Which is easier said than done, because I have to make myself scarce without loosing sight of her. If she doesn't spot me the second she decides she has had enough solitude, she panicks. Big time.
Nevertheless I adore our girly outings together. It is lovely to see how she is changing from a little girl into a teenager. That she doesn't like a single piece of clothing that I like is only natural and to see her emerging from a changing room in leather trousers and a leather jacket (embellished with a chunky gold asymmetrical zip) is priceless.
My daughter is developping a rather unique style as she likes to combine zip off outdoor trousers and hiking boots with very glitzy leave one shoulder bare tops. We don't buy the leather jacket outfit as it is way too expensive, but instead we manage to find her a pair of black leather boots adorned with metal studs and a very garish orange top with loads of sequins and a rather busy print.
Over coffee and chocolate in a lovely little cafe, my olive skinned daughter confides in me, that she
really wants blusher, because she would like to be 'very brown in the winter too'. She is determined to spend her pocket money on it and since she can do whatever she likes with her own pennies, I let her.
Ages we spend surveying the different 'revolutionary' skintone alterating products. Finally my daughter picks a powder blusher that is the shade of an old fashioned clay tennis court. It will defenitely do the trick. She also finds a nice looking bottle of Vampy Kiss, which wouldn't go amiss if someone threw up in the car, but is just a tat overpowering in all other circumstances.
Hours later, glow in the dark orange and smelling divine, I find her on the sofa reading a girl's magazine.  She has a brilliant idea, she tells me. Next time we go shopping together she is going to pick out stuff for me to try on. 'It is going to be great', she says, smiling seductively. 'I will find you a really good pair of leather trousers and a very sparkly top'. Great idea! I am only hoping however that she will have forgotten all about the necessity of blusher by then.

Star

My children have learned how to conjugate verbs in four, or in my sons case, five different languages. But do they use any of that knowledge to communicate with me? Nope. One word suffices to get their message across.

Depending  on intonation, rhythm, volume and breaking up of the word in two, or sometimes even three nonexisting syllables, a single 'mum' cuts straight to the chase. 'Mum' sounding loudly and yet strangely muffled at the same time, means that one of my kids can't find his or her P.E. kit, homework, guitar, or favourite jumper. It might by the way also mean that they can't find the butter, chocolate sprinkles, bread rolls, or - my favourite - have run out of loo paper whilst sitting on the toilet.
With their head stuck in a kitchen cabinet, sock drawer, or laundry basket they expect me to magically pull whatever it is that they want (need!!!) out of a top hat. I can not seem to make them understand that stuff could also be at the bottom of a pile, behind something else on a shelf, or still in one of the zillions of bags shattered around our house.
 'Mum' uttered in a kind of whiney tone of voice however conveys a different set of messages in our family. 'I told you I have a tummy ache and you're not responding to it the way that I want you to', certainly is one of them. As are: 'I left my rain jacket in some changing room somewhere and now I am cold and wet and it is all your fault', 'I failed my geography test and it is so unfair, because I did study for it and by the way, it is all your fault', or 'I left my lunchbox at home and you did not want to bring it and now I am soooo hungry and it is definitely your fault and did you know that you are the worst mum in the world'.
 'Muhum', or 'muhuhum' repeated over and over, combined with a rolling of the eyes is my children's way of telling me that I have never been more wrong in my life than when I suggested they bring waterproof trousers on a day trip to the zoo in November. Or when I tell them I don't want to watch Harry Potter at two in the afternoon on a gloriously sunny day, nor want to teach them how to bake at nine 'o clock at night (but you always say we are going to .., but when I ask you, you never feel like it').
 My children 'mum' from dawn to dusk, preferably simultaneously, never doubting my superwomanpowers to listen to my daughter playing guitar in her bedroom upstairs, while at the same time searching for my son's maths book in the kitchen downstairs. They also seriously expect me to not bat an eyelid when they need me to handwash their team sports socks that they forgot to put in the laundry bin a week ago. And didn't I know they need those socks tonight? And all that while I am busy cooking dinner.
When I finally sit down for a spot of apathetic gazing at the telly, I hear a softly whispered 'mum' coming from upstairs. It is my 10yo daughter who should have been asleep by now. She needs to know whether we have any cardboard. 'It is for a present for you', she hastily adds when she sees my
face. I leave without getting too cross with her, but ten minutes or so later she lures me into her
bedroom again. Covered in glue, paper, ribbon and beaming radiantly she hands me a giant card. 'To mum, you are a' it reads, followed by a massive and very sparkely star. And you know what? I think she has a point.